


Where the cameras can't see

by Socksheep



Series: The doctor and the spy [2]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 15:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12323682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socksheep/pseuds/Socksheep
Summary: John and Mycroft embark on a relationship while trying to keep Sherlock in the dark.





	1. The abandoned warehouse

It had been a week since their tender embrace at the surgery and John hadn't set eyes on Mycroft once. He had had a series of texts, all of which could be read as perfectly normal and businesslike for those not in the know... Specifically, Sherlock.

The last one had read

_'Request progress update on previously discussed investigation into abuse of NHS resources. MH'_

Sherlock had peered over his shoulder as he read it that morning at breakfast and sniffed. 

'Hmm. Fatcroft trying to make me investigate NHS wastage? Boring!'

and stalked off, swirling his dressing gown around him in dramatic fashion. John cleared his throat. 

'Yeah. Total waste of your time. Wonder why he thought you'd look into that?'

...whilst texting Mycroft back 

' _Sherlock not interested, but I could take a look if it helps?'_

John put his phone away with a secret smile and went to get ready for work. He he took care to dress in his best work clothes, smarter than usual but not his usual 'date' clothes so as to keep Sherlock in the dark. He clattered quickly down the stairs to the front door, calling goodbye to Sherlock on the way, and walked towards the tube station. Sure enough, as soon as he rounded the corner from Baker Street a sleek black limo pulled up smoothly to the curb, and the back window slid down just far enough for him to make out Mycroft waiting inside. Glancing around, John stepped up to the kerb, opened the door and climbed in. 

'Good morning Dr Watson, I hope you don't mind us giving you a lift to work? I would like to apologise for my lack of available time this past week in which to further our endeavour. I'm afraid I can't tell you the details of the crisis that emerged, suffice it to say that The incident has been... dealt with'

John smiled. He knew of course that Mycroft wouldn't be able to tell him details about his work, no matter how much he might protest to occupy a "minor role in the British government" - The doctor was unsure exactly what Mycroft's real role was, though from Sherlock's hints it seemed possible that he practically ran the entire show. 

'I understand perfectly, don't worry. I was hoping that we had progressed to using first names, however...'

'Of course. John.'

Hearing his name spoken in that sultry tone sent a small shiver down the doctor's spine. Just as he was beginning to contemplate how much time he had before work, however, Mycroft cut into his thoughts.

'Sadly I fear there won't be time for any of the delightful possibilities running through your mind my dear doctor, as we are just arriving at your place of work at this very moment.'

John huffed out an amused sigh. How transparent was he to this remarkable man? And how had Mycroft known precisely where they were? He had not moved his gaze from John's face for one moment since he entered the car, yet here they were, precisely as he said the words, pulling up outside the surgery. Incredible. Before he could say anything, however, the other spoke again. 

'If you have no objection, might I also be allowed to furnish you with a ride home after work? I believe you finish at 6.30 today.'

'That sounds brilliant, thank you. Will you be free this evening?' 

John asked, hoping he could finally get the chance to get to know the man a little better. It had been extremely difficult this past week to continue as normal, not dwelling on Mycroft and the relationship they had decided to embark on, lest Sherlock somehow read it in the set of his shoulders and find a way to sabotage it before it began.

Mycroft leaned forward and purred in his ear 

'Oh, doctor... I guarantee it.'

Supressing another shiver down his spine, the doctor brushed a soft kiss to the taller man's cheek before hurriedly exiting the car and going into work. 

 

 

 


	2. Back to old haunts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft can be strangely romantic sometimes...

At 18:35 hrs John shrugged on his coat and stepped outside the surgery, calling goodnight to the receptionist who was just dealing with the final paperwork before locking up. He smiled as he saw the sleek black limo idling by the kerb, and marched swiftly towards it. The driver somehow beat him to the door without appearing to hurry at all (How did they do that? Special secret-service move-like-a-ninja training? he wondered) and opened it, revealing the back of the luxurious car to be empty. John hesitated a second - Mycroft always sent somebody, usually Not-Anthea, to accompany him when he was being 'kidnapped'... he was a little wary of getting into the car on his own. He had been fooled that way before, by Irene Adler. As he looked around and paused, however, his phone chimed a text alert and pulling it from his pocket, he read: 

 

_'Apologies John. Held up by the PM. Will meet you there. MH'_

John smirked to himself as he allowed the momentary tension to drain away and slid into the back of the car. Either he was just that predictable to Mycroft, or else (more likely), the man was watching him on CCTV. Either way, he relaxed and leaned back in the plush seat, allowing his eyes to close as he was whisked away to his rendezvous in sublime comfort.

The car glided to a halt and John started as the door was opened - he may have started to doze off in the luxurious car and hadn't realised they had already arrived. He got out, thanking the driver while looking around him, baffled. This looked like the exact same derelict warehouse Mycroft had first brought him to, their first ever meeting, when he had attempted to recruit the ex-soldier and failed utterly to intimidate him. Why would Mycroft bring him here? The car pulled away, leaving him with little option but to go inside and find out. Feeling cautious, adrenaline levels starting to rise, he pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly-lit foyer. The next set of door in front of him had a glass panel and when he stepped close, peering into the gloom inside the building, the sight that met his eyes took his breath away. 

 

Inside the large empty space a pool of light illuminated a small area of floor... but this was no floodlight or interrogation spotlight. No, a ring of candles in small jars set out in a circle on the floor threw a soft flickering glow over a table set for dinner for two, complete with elegant white linen cloth, a vase of roses and a bottle of chilled champagne. Standing next to the table, looking extremely nervous, was Mycroft Holmes. The ex-soldier took a deep breath, and stepped inside. 

 

"I do hope what you see is to your liking, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked softly. 

John did not reply immediately. Instead he walked slowly toward the politician until he reached the edge of the circle of dancing light. 

 

"You did all this... for me?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. 

Mycroft smiled a strange sideways smirk. "I can't claim to have personally set out and lit each candle, but yes, I arranged this for you. Is it... fitting? I am somewhat inexperienced in the matter of first dates."

 

John stepped closer, through the circle of candles and stopped inches away from the other, who he now noticed was sweating slightly. _Poor Mycroft_ , he thought. _He really is out of his comfort zone. Maybe I can fix that._ he stood on tiptoe to breathe quietly in the taller man's ear,

"It's perfect. And no more calling me 'Doctor'. Unless we're playing, that is". 

He felt the warmth heating the cheek beside his face, so close, and had to give in. He gently grasped Mycroft's biceps for balance, and began to kiss him, starting beside his ear and laying a trail of small, soft kisses towards his mouth. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reflects on a magical evening. Fluff so fluffy you might choke. Smut will come soon, I promise.

John lay in bed in his room at 221B, feeling so replete and happy he didn't know what to do with himself. He'd been dropped home at 23.30, having agreed a 'cover story' with Mycroft to try and keep Sherlock off the scent. The elder Holmes also appeared to believe the maxim that 'only lies have detail', so had suggested John simply say that Mycroft had kidnapped him and taken him for dinner at the Diogenes Club to discuss the NHS fraud case he wanted investigated. In the event, he hadn't needed to utter a word. Sherlock had taken one look at him, sniffed the air near his face, and remarked:

"Hmm. Well I suppose you at least got a good meal out of today's kidnapping. I'm still not helping him though. Boring! I'm far too busy trying to prove the effects of various acids on human liver tissue".

John had taken one look at the kitchen table, covered in dishes containing lumps of macerated flesh and acid, and decided to go straight to bed. Sherlock hadn't found this suspicious, having long since discovered that his flatmate's tolerance for human organs on the table was not infinite. He might be a doctor and a soldier, having seen enough bodies and body parts in both roles to not be squeamish, but was still not overly keen on finding them where he ate his food. So here he lay in bed, thinking over the last 5 hours and all that had happened therein. Who would have thought Mycroft Holmes could be so romantic? John had never had anybody make such an effort for him, having stuck quite closely to a traditional straight man's dating pattern, he was usually the one to do the wooing... buying flowers, paying for dinner... he had never been on the receiving end before and he was surprised how appealing he found the experience. It made him feel really special that Mycroft had gone to so much effort rather than simply taking him to a restaurant.

The meal had been delicious, 5-star cuisine all ready plated up on a serving trolley next to their table, and kept warm by some clever warming system such that although he had got thoroughly distracted kissing Mycroft and taken a good ten minutes to calm down and remember that they had dinner waiting, his pan-fried scallops were still hot and meltingly tender, the fillet steak superlatively red and bloody within and the chips hot, golden and crunchy. How on earth did they manage that? _Maybe MI5 has a secret catering wing_ , he thought mischievously. Mycroft caught his eye and as usual knew exactly what had been passing through his mind.

"I assure you John, there has not yet existed a need for any of her Majesty's agents to perfect the art of Michelin-starred cuisine in order to affect an assassination... the meal came from the Diogenes Club, whose chef is somewhat talented and knows my predilections for simple, good food, cooked well".

John smiled. This seemed like a gross understatement of what had undoubtedly been the best food he had ever tasted. He was enjoying himself immensely, Mycroft proving to be a fascinating conversationalist on a number of surprising topics. Without once alluding to his work or to the current politics of the nation, he had talked expressively of music, film, literature, and foreign travel, comparing notes with John on the culture and habits of some of the countries the latter had visited on deployment. He even spoke a little Pashto and John found himself wondering exactly how many languages Mycroft had learned to facilitate his role as... whatever he was. He would probably never know, but didn't mind the secrecy. He understood that some things must remain unsaid for the security of the nation, and was smart enough not to ask Mycroft about his work. 

After much time had passed in engaging conversation, Mycroft politely enquired whether John would care for dessert. The doctor shook his head. 

"Actually, what I'd really like is to dance. With you. Is that possible?" His cheeks went faintly pink, hoping that this did not seem too much of an odd request. Mycroft looked slightly startled, but rose to the challenge as only a Holmes could and, with a few swift taps of his phone,  a slow, floating melody began to play. He stood and offered his hand to John, who took it and followed him to a clear area of floor just outside the candles. The two men stepped close, arms resting on each other's arms, hands on shoulders, neither exactly leading the other but both falling easily into a simple swaying motion, slowly moving around the floor. John looked up at Mycroft in wonder, eyes shining, to see the same look reflected back at him. He had never before found it so easy to just be with somebody, with no pretense. He allowed his hands to slide up into Mycroft's auburn hair and gently pulled him down for a tender kiss. 

 


	4. Wanting more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case disrupts Johns plans for his and Mycroft's second date, so the doctor is forced to improvise.

"JOHN!"

Doctor Watson awoke with a start on hearing his name shouted. He had never been a heavy sleeper but years as a Junior Doctor on the graveyard shift followed by Army hours had drilled him into waking up instantly, adrenaline rushing, senses on high alert, ready for action. Still dark outside... what could have happened? It must be something important for Sherlock to be bellowing his name in the middle of the night, surely? Perhaps a case? He quickly dragged on some clothes, hearing the younger man's footsteps pounding up the stairs. His door was shoved swiftly open and his flatmate exclaimed

" A CASE, John, hurry! Lestrade just called. It's a genuine locked-room murder! A man's body found inside his locked flat, head bashed in but no murder weapon, no signs of forced entry or exit and all the doors and windows not only locked but barred or bolted from the inside! It's brilliant!"

John personally wondered what about it was so brilliant that it couldn't have waited another 4 or 5 hours until daylight, but then mentally shook himself - if there was a murderer at large in London then the sooner they could apprehend him, the better. He was dressed by this point and reaching for his shoes but his manic flatmate had already bounded off downstairs, presumably to hail a cab. The doctor laced up his shoes and followed, pausing only to grab his coat on the way down through their flat to where his friend was waiting outside. London tended to be a bit chilly at 2am even in Springtime, and he never knew where they'd end up. He followed Sherlock into the waiting cab and shut the door, raising an eyebrow as they pulled away from the kerb without a word - clearly Sherlock had already given the cabbie the address. 

" So where are we headed?" he asked, hoping not to get the usual sarcastic response ("crime scene, John, do pay attention") from his acerbic friend. 

"Pimlico. Lestrade will meet us at the scene. He's sent through a few photos but i need to see it myself before Anderson messes it all up. If we waited until morning there'd be no chance of finding the neccessary clues - they'd all have been trampled into the morass of incompetence."

The smaller man said nothing, being only too used to his friend's diatribes on the subject of Scotland Yard's forensic analysis team. He only hoped that whatever the case may bring, it would be a quick one, not involving days of chasing around London on Sherlock's coat-tails, getting filthy and probably getting beaten up by lowlife scum. Not that he had any objection to that per se - it was certainly fun - but he had made reservations at the opera for 8 o'clock for his second date with Mycroft. He would need to scrub up well and wear his best suit (purchased for an army mate's wedding and rarely worn since) if he hoped not to embarrass his new lover. Watson was aware that he was hopelessly outclassed and possibly taking his place as Mycroft's 'bit of rough', but he didn't mind that so long as he didn't look laughable. He would need an hour (call it two if he'd been out on the chase with Sherlock) to get ready, so needed to be back at the flat by 5pm at the latest to ensure that he wouldn't be late to meet Mycroft. Fifteen hours to sort out this case. What could possibly go wrong?


	5. White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just about everything goes wrong, but it all works out ok in the end.

It was ten past six and they were wading through a sewer. All John's hopes of making it back in time for his date with Mycroft were shattered, and worse still, he had absolutely no mobile coverage to be able to text and cancel. The diminutive doctor struggled on after the detective, trying not to breathe too deeply, or curse out loud. What the bloody buggering fuck were they doing in a sewer anyway? Why did he always follow blindly every time the lanky idiot shouted 'Come along, John!' and dived into the nearest lunatic chase? And why couldn't he just walk away, go and scrub himself raw, and go on his date? He sighed. He knew precisely why - there was a murderer down here somewhere, running away from his best friend's pursuit, who could be armed and dangerous. He's be a piss-poor best friend if he left Sherlock to get shot now, having saved his life so many times before. He just wished he could be included in the decision-making process or follow the train of deductions, rather than being dragged along as the muscle.

Up ahead, Sherlock had stopped and turned to regard him, a puzzled look on his face.

"What are you huffing for? We're this close to tracking down the killer and you've gone all sulky... what for? You've been checking your watch more often than usual today... Clearly some sort of appointment to keep but it can't be anything medical, it's past 6 o'clock... Personal then... a date? But with whom? You haven't had the opportunity to meet any new women lately, you've been back and forth between work and the flat, no new colleagues at work, you're not stupid enough to risk your licence by getting involved with a patient..."

"Oh thanks, Sherlock, nice to hear you have so high an opinion of my intelligence. And you can stop right there thanks, yes I DID have plans for a date, but clearly I'm not going to make it, and I can't cancel since I have no signal. Doubt I'll get a second date, nobody likes being stood up after all. So I think I'm entitled to be a bit huffy, thank you. Now where the hell are we heading in this muck?"

The detective narrowed his eyes - did he suspect John was trying to deflect his interest? With a whirl of his ridiculous coat he spun around and wordlessly began the hunt anew. John rolled his eyes and followed. Still not getting an explanation then... great. A few hundred yards further and Sherlock suddenly threw up a hand in warning. Reading his flatmate's intention, the doctor stopped dead and held his breath. Had the genius found something? After a few more seconds he began to tiptoe forwards. John followed, adrenaline rising, reaching around to ease his pistol from the waistband of his jeans. He never knew when he'd need to defend his friend, and preferred to be prepared. Some army doctors were pacifists, refusing to carry a gun - John personally thought they were the bravest men he'd ever met - but he'd always preferred to be armed and ready, and spent plenty of time at the range learning to shoot straight. It had saved his life, and his friends', more than once.

Suddenly a dark shape darted out in front of them from a cross tunnel, and there was a deafening bang, echoing through the pipes. Looked like he'd been right - the suspect was armed and ready to kill them to evade capture, though fortunately he was a rubbish shot. No point in being quiet any more, he knew they were there. As one, both detective and doctor charged ahead at full speed, pelting along in the ankle-deep muck as fast as they dared to try and catch the killer. The detective had a short lead at first but after a minute or two the doctor overtook him - not many would suspect it but despite his shorter legs Dr Watson was the fitter of the two, with years of army training building his endurance, while the detective's bursts of speed soon fizzled out, fitness compromised by a combination of inadequate nutrition and reduced lung capacity from smoking.

Just as Watson passed him, however, Holmes let out a shout and the sudden noise startled their prey, distracting him just enough to lose his footing in the slippery tunnel. He was already going down when doctor and detective came barreling into him, crashing to the floor in a huge wave of filth.

 

 

*****************************************************************************

 

At seven o'clock precisely, John found himself back on the street above. Filthy from head to foot, standing around wearily waiting while Sherlock pranced about explaining his deductions to Lestrade. As he stood, tapping his foot, he pulled out his mobile and sent a single word.

 

_Sorry._

 

After a minute, the security camera on the nearest building quietly swivelled his way. John looked up at it, and shrugged. His mobile pinged. 

 

_I see. My thanks for keeping him safe, in any case. Perhaps another night?  MH_

 

John sighed in relief. He quickly tapped out and sent a response, then stormed over to where Sherlock was (still) belittling Scotland Yard's forensic abilities. 

" That's it, Sherlock, I've had it. You can stay here all night trading insults with Anderson if you want, I'm going home to get clean. If any cab will even take me in this state!"

 

"Hold up, John! I reckon the least we owe you is a lift home," interjected Greg Lestrade, seeming happy just to have got Sherlock off his back. "Maybe not in the back of my car, though... I've just had it cleaned. Donovan, get a van out here - they're easier to hose down". 

 

Ten minutes later John shoved manhandled a vehemently protesting Sherlock into the back of a prisoner transport van (as Greg had said, there was nothing in here that couldn't be hosed down) and headed back to Baker Street for a very thorough shower. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry, i wimped out of writing actual case-fic. I just don't think I've got enough cunning to do it justice. :-/


	6. Plan B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets scrubbed up and starts his operation

After a long, hot shower with lots and lots of scrubbing (serve Sherlock right if there isn't any hot water left, thought John), Dr Watson prepped for his next operation. The night's original entertainment plans scrapped, he was putting into place plan B. Plan B required more casual clothing (excellent, less chance of his flatmate questioning his attire and intentions), and an alibi... 

"Right Sherlock, I'm off to the pub to celebrate, meeting Greg and the Yarders there, you joining us?"

His flatmate sneered (as best one can from under a curtain of running water) "No thank you very much, I shan't sully my ears by forcing them to listen to Scotland Yard's 'finest' congratulating themselves on another near-disaster of a case rescued only by yours truly".

Shaking his head at the man's incredible arrogance, John replied 

" Righto then, don't wait up, I might crash at Greg's if it's a good night. And no blowing up the kitchen."

"I fail to see how that can be guaranteed John".

The doctor sighed, knowing that was the best he was likely to get, and headed downstairs. It was only 9pm, the night was still (relatively) young, and he hoped it could be salvaged. As he reached the street corner, he raised his hand to summon a cab but instead found a familiar sleek black car gliding towards him. He smiled quietly to himself and approached the back door. The window slid down an inch or so and the voice he'd been dying to hear all day murmured smoothly 

"My my, Doctor... you DO scrub up well..."

Grinning widely, John opened the door and slid into the back seat, Mycroft shifting gracefully across to make room for him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tentatively resting his hand on the taller man's knee as they pulled away smoothly from the kerb. 

"Sorry, love. I know I don't have to explain what he's like but I did try to escape..."

Further explanations or apologies were rendered impossible by the touch of smooth, warm lips to his. Very little else was said (but much was communicated) on the ride back to Mycroft's house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, very short one I know but I did post two today... :-)


End file.
